The Poem: To Love

Let others sing of Mars, and of his train,
Of great exploits, and honourable scars,
The many dire effects of Civil Wars,
Death's triumphs, and encomiums of the slain.

I sing the conflicts I myself sustain,
With her (Great Love) the cause of all my cares,
Who wounds with looks, and fetters with her hairs.
This mournful tale requires a tragic strain.

Eyes were the Arms, did first my Peace control,
Wounded by them, a source of Tears there sprung,
Running like blood from my afflicted soul;
Thou Love, to whom this conquest does belong,
Leave me at least the comfort to condole,
And as thou wound'st my Heart, inspire my Song.
-Philip Ayres

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